A Glitch in the Matrix

It was July, and I was in the soap aisle at Superstore. A lady about my age came up to me.

"Excuse me," she said, "hi. I love your purse. Where did you get it?"

I smiled at her. "The Sears Outlet," I said. "Before it closed."

"Oh. Too bad," she said. "I'm looking for a purse, and I like that style." She looked disappointed. "I need something with straps like that that won't slip down my shoulder. It looks like it holds a lot too."

"It does," I said, still smiling, still glancing at the soap. I was trying to decide between mango-pomegranate and cocoa butter.

"Oh well!" she said. "Thanks anyway!"

"Have a good one," I said, and that was that.

Or so I thought.

She disappeared around a corner, and I took two soaps from the shelf and threw them into my basket. And when I turned to go, she was standing in front of me again, like a magical soap aisle fairy.

"I forgot to introduce myself," she said, and I thought that was weird, because I thought she didn't really need to introduce herself to ask where I bought my bag; she could just ask and go on her way and I wouldn't be bothered about it. "I'm Katy."

"Oh, hi," I said. "I'm Suzy." We had to shake hands, then, because what is an introduction if you don't grab each other's hands and move them up and down?

But then I could see that she had something else she wanted to say.

"Hey," she said, as though she'd just thought of something, even though you and I both know she hadn't just thought of something. "I was wondering, what do you do?"

"Stay at home mom," I said. "How about you?" Because I could tell she was going to tell me anyway.

"Actually!" she said, as though she weren't expecting the chance to tell me what she does, even though you and I both know she certainly was. "My husband and I have a business that we run out of our home. It's so great; we can both stay home and run our business. We met another couple who was doing it, and it was very successful for them, so we decided to give it a try and we're very happy. We're actually looking to expand, and you are so friendly and easy to talk to, I wondered if you might be interested in hearing more about it!"

I felt my face do that thing it does when people are trying to sell me something. I spend approximately 12 hours of my day being sold to, you know? I have real-life friends who love pyramid schemes. My smart phone literally listens to me speak so that it knows what to try and sell me. Plus, all of sudden every person I follow on Instagram is an influencer, trying to sell me a lifestyle or a product or a vacation. I don't need strangers coming up to me in grocery stores too.

I'm a smart woman, I know what I want to buy. I know where to buy it. I do research so I can buy the best It at the lowest price.

So anyway, long story shot (ha), I said I was super busy, and thanks no thanks, and have a really great day, and bye.

Fast forward to last Tuesday. I'm in Walmart. I'm buying jeans for Sully, whose legs grow five inches per second. A lady about my age comes up to me.

"Excuse me," she says, "hi. I love your purse. Where did you get it?"

I smile at her. I do get a lot of compliments on this purse, don't I? It was a good purchase. "The Sears Outlet," I say. "Before it closed."

"Oh. Too bad," she says. "I'm looking for a purse, and I like that style." She looks disappointed, and I experience a wave of deja vu. "I need something with straps like that that won't slip down my shoulder. It looks like it holds a lot too."

"It does," I say warily.

"Oh well!" she says. "Thanks anyway!"

"Have a good one," I say, and she walks away.

I turn back to the jeans, and wait.

She disappears around a rack of Batman t-shirts and emerges two minutes later from behind the jeans display, grinning.

"I forgot to introduce myself," she says, holding out her hand, "I'm Melissa."

"Oh, hi," I say. My mouth is still smiling, but my eyes are probably not. This isn't the same woman as the one from Superstore last summer, but I swear the interaction as a whole is identical. "I'm Suzy." We shake hands. Because we have to, because this is the Twilight Zone.

"Hey," she says, as though she's just thought of something, even though you and I both really, really know she hasn't just thought of something. "I was wondering, what do you do?"

"Stay at home mom," I say. And I don't ask her what she does, because darn it I already know.

"Amazing!" she says sincerely, enthusiastically, too enthusiastically, as though I am the only woman in the whole world who stays home with my children. She pauses. She's waiting for me to reciprocate the question, but I'm just full-on staring at her. So she plunges ahead. "My husband and I have a business that we run out of our home. It's so great; we can both stay home and run our business together. We met another couple who was doing it, and it was very successful for them, so we decided to give it a try and we're very happy. We're actually looking to expand, and you are so friendly and easy to talk to, I wondered if you might be interested in hearing more about it!"

I did my whole-super-busy-thanks-no-thanks-have-a-good-one-bye thing, but I'm really wishing I'd asked what company this is that writes out the script for the entire conversation so precisely, so exactly, down to the staging. Like, was there tape on the floor where she was supposed to stand when she came back for round two?

Has anyone else met these Purse People? What is this business? Is it something to do with purses? Or did I actually just experience a glitch in the Matrix?

We're All Way Older Than We Thought, I Think

Hi, I've just been on an emotional roller coaster and I'd like to take you all with me as I ride it one more time.

Okay. So.

I'm sitting here in my living room, working—and by working I mean I have an empty screen in front of me, curser flashing, and I'm staring around the room admiring certain things about it and intermittently stalking strangers on Instagram. I don't know how I got to this one celebrity's page, but I'm there, and I don't know who the heck she is. Someone from Parks & Rec, a show that I've tried to love many times but cannot (I'm sorry about that).

She looks like she's a few years older than me—but also, she has probably had help in the fountain of youth department because Hollywood. So maybe she's older than she looks. I don't know.

(I'm thirty. I suppose that's relevant here.)

It's a picture of her and a guy, and the caption is like, 'Middle-aged people enjoying a night out,' or something.

So, of course, I scroll up and look at the picture again, trying to figure out how old the woman is, because she really doesn't look that old, and I've generally thought 'middle-age' is a million years away for me. But if she's already considered middle-aged then so am I and that is a terrifying thought.

It's a fan account, not the personal account of the star herself. I have nothing to Google. I try, 'Girl Parks & Rec brown hair.' I find her. I click on her Wikipedia page. She is thirty-three. She was probably being facetious, calling herself middle-aged. But what if she wasn't? What if I stumbled and fell into middle-age without knowing it?

I frown. Is thirty middle-aged? Am I middle-aged?

Barclay's sitting on the couch eating a piece of toast. I say, "Barclay, what would you consider to be middle-aged?"

He frowns too, but his frown is because he's never thought of this before and has no idea what he considers to be middle-aged and also he probably doesn't care and just wants to eat his toast. "I don't know. Forty?"

I frown more, because at first I'm like, Okay, so thirty isn't middle-aged, but then I'm like, Forty isn't very far away.

I go back to Google.

What is considered middle-aged?

Google gives me a Huffington Post article titled "40 Signs You Are Middle-Aged." The Huffington Post probably knows about this sort of thing, I think. I click on it.

The article starts out by assuring me that I am not, in fact, middle-aged or even close to it. 53, says the article, is when you start middle-age. I think that's a strange and arbitrary number, but suddenly I feel like a fresh baby child.

But then I'm like, if the answer is 53, why do they come out and say that in the very first paragraph and what's all this article underneath?

It's a list. Of course. Because of the title of the article. These are the 40 Signs You Are Middle-Aged.

Having been duly assured that I have a solid 23 years until I will be considered middle-aged, I allow myself a little skim.

The first on the list is about losing touch with technology. I smile. I'm fine. I'm a spring chicken.

Number two: Finding you have no idea what 'young people' are talking about. I think of my friend Kate, who is a high school teacher, and who regularly has to explain to me what young people are talking about. They have a whole new language! I don't know it! Where did it come from? They're saying words I recognize, but I can tell they have all new meanings now. I'm frowning again.

Number four: Needing an afternoon nap. Do they mean needing only an afternoon nap? Because I would nap morning, afternoon, and evening if certain tiny members of my family would allow it.

Number five: Groaning when you bend down. Dude, I groan when I think about bending down. I groan when I walk across the kitchen. I groan all day and in my sleep. I'm groaning right now because I've been sitting for too long. SITTING. Not even sitting on a horse; I'm sitting on a very cushy chair. I'm a Groany McGroanerson.

Number Seven: Talking a lot about your joints/ailments. Uh, check. See number five.

Number ten, thinking policemen/teachers/doctors look really young, thirteen, choosing clothes and shoes for comfort rather than style, seventeen, forgetting people's names, number nineteen, misplacing your glasses/bag/car keys, etc, twenty, complaining about rubbish on tv, twenty, enjoying getting socks for Christmas, twenty-four, complaining more, twenty-six, moving from radio one to radio two...!!!

I HAVE BEEN MIDDLE-AGED FOR AT LEAST TEN YEARS.

I hit the back button. The article below the Huffington Post's "40 Signs You Are Middle-Aged" is another Huffington Post article titled "25 Surefire Signs You've Finally Hit Middle Age."

Do I click on it? Of course I do.

(But I'll spare you.)

I feel like I'll get a bunch of comments from people older than me being like, "You little tiny baby, shut up and enjoy your little tiny baby life," and a bunch of other comments from people my age being like, "Oh no I also love naps and CBC Radio Two!" and the teenagers will just be like, "You're really flonking your flizzit right now, flibberty-jibbit fleek Netflix, Hundo-P Squad goals bae."

When did this happen?

Playlist For an Aimless Night

There are so many tabs and windows currently open on my computer right now. Every time I click or type, there's a loud whirring sound, like my computer is whining or sighing at me. Like I'm asking too much of it. It reminds me of something...

Oh, right. My brain.

Barclay's at a friend's house this evening, watching some WWII movie, and I'm here. Clicking around all these windows and tabs. Working in one, shopping in another, listening to music in another, organizing the Photos app, messing around in Photoshop, Googling song lyrics, Googling other stuff, drafting an email...

It seems like a lot should be getting done, but nothing is, and that's a sign that I should probably shut it all down and turn on Netflix.

The soundtrack to my aimless night: